Letters to Bethany
by bamftastik
Summary: Three years after their trip into the Deep Roads, Hawke attempts to explain her motivations in a series of letters to her sister.
1. Chapter 1

Dearest Bethany,

Three years to the day now since you left us. Much has happened in Kirkwall since that trip into the deeps, but I will not bore you with the details. They say that the Maker sees all and if you are at his side, I can only imagine that you've been watching over us with some amusement. Foolish perhaps, but it helps to remember you this way. I can only hope I will not be too great a disappointment.

Tensions throughout the city are escalating. I would even venture to say that they are worse now than they were before. The mages and the templars remain at each other's throats, but there is an unease to the balance, a prickling sense that it will not last. You always joked that I might, in fact, have a bit of magic in me. That these "feelings" were premonitions of a sort. I feared those words more than I ever admitted.

Perhaps that is why I am writing to you now; perhaps I seek to apologize for actions that I have yet to undertake. Our life has never been an easy one. Peasants, fugitives and refugees we were, forced to run, to hide, never knowing when the world might be ripped from our grasp. I said that I did not blame you, but I think that you knew better. You and Father were not given a choice in being what you are; that burden fell to those of us tasked with protecting you.

It has been a difficult failure to live with. All those years of running, and for what? I remember what happened to Ser Wesley, that even a templar was not strong enough to stand against the taint. But I still cannot help but wonder... would you have been so susceptible if you were not a mage? Was it this again that had taken so much and then took everything?

The memory of that expedition still stirs the taste of ash, but I have used the proceeds to repurchase the estate in Hightown for Mother. I wish that I could say this without pride, but I fear that in some small part this is not the case. We had wondered together what would have happened had Mother remained in Kirkwall, had she not fled and bound herself to an apostate. Something of that life has been returned to her, at least. She has summoned so much strength these past three years, strength for both you and Carver. She tries to move on but I cannot help but wonder - here, in this place – that if this is the way her life should have been, will it be as though you never were?

I promise you, Bethany, that I will not let this happen. But beyond these walls, things are stirring. You must understand that I protected you for so long because you were my sister. I did not truly blame you, nor even Father. Distrust and suspicion of mages have been with us since ages past, but more and more I see now that they have earned this fear. It is their fault that we were hunted – the blood mages and the summoners of demons – and their numbers seem to be swelling beyond control. Without you at my side, I truly do not know which way I will turn, if I can overlook the danger that we are faced with now. I no longer have a reason to love them, but ever more reason to fear them still.

I spoke with Anders today. He had asked to see with me; he'd remembered your anniversary and wished to express his condolences. It was an awkward moment, more so than usual. Not two days ago he nearly killed a woman. I was able to talk him – it – down, but I fear that he is losing control.

And yet there are stranger things. I remember that you once said that he reminded you of Father, the way that you would laugh at his jokes and smile from the corner of your eye when you thought that he was not looking. Perhaps it was merely this or the knowledge that, had I but taken him into the deeps in your place, I would still have my sister. I honestly cannot say.

I slept with him, Bethany. And afterward I was cruel, so very cruel. If this would have hurt you, I apologize, but I cannot bring myself to feel the guilt that I know I should. I know, too, that I have written before of Fenris. Even my heart lies elsewhere, but I find myself turning instead to embrace that which I hate. So hard we have fought to escape the life of the hunted apostate and I find my mind straying even now, wondering at a future that I never wanted, at a future that cannot be.

Perhaps this is a confession after all. But you should know that it is a life without you that I fear the most. Without you here to temper me, how can I hope to temper another? Something is coming and I wonder if you aren't the better for not being here to see it.

Yet, as always, thoughts of you comfort me. You are a help still, a light in the darkness in more ways than you know. I will write again next year.

Yours in love and death,  
Alara


	2. Chapter 2

Dearest Bethany,

There is no easy way to tell you what I suspect you already know. I have failed you, failed Carver and have tried to live as best I could with the guilt that Mother laid at my feet. She spoke otherwise, of course, but we both knew that such denials are a hollow thing. Had it not been for me, we would be a family still. But even in the end it was me that you looked to, me that you bid make one simple oath. And I was not strong enough to keep it. Mother is gone, Bethany.

Does she stand beside you now, welcome at the Maker's side? I do not know what to believe anymore, do not even trust to the comfort of these words.

I could have saved her. I do not second-guess my haste or strength, do not seek to blame forces that were beyond anyone's control. It is merely simple fact. I could have prevented this and I did not. A man named Gaspard DuPuis also hunted Mother's killer. He knew the man's habits and planned to stop him. But DuPuis was a mage and, to my mind, this was evidence enough of his complicity. Rather than accept his aid, I drove my blade through his chest. Had I but dared to trust... But the problem was not my own then. It was simply another task for another wanting soul and I solved it as quickly and as simply as I could.

But it was a mage that took her. Another man, yes, but a mage still. He cut her, Bethany, piecing her together with the stolen bodies of other women to create a shambling sort of half life. You cannot imagine the horror. I dare not imagine it now.

Could a normal man have done such a thing? Men may kill and they may hurt, but they are limited by the rules of this world. Mages are limited only by the bounds of their minds and I cannot help but wonder if such power is a breeding ground for madness. How many times now have I been called upon to stop an evil that did not have magic behind it? Once perhaps?

This house is so empty now. Even with the dwarves and Orana, it does not have the feel of home. Nor do I dare show my face to Gamlen. Had it not been for him, I may not have even noticed her disappearance. Mother knew, too, in the end. As she lay broken and fading in my arms, she told me that I was now alone. It was not her pride or her relief that reached my ears, nor even her sadness. No, it is that one simple truth. I am alone and the fault is my own.

Fenris came to me that night. He remembers little of loss, despite his history, and the moment was awkward at best. Mother never truly approved of him. She trusted my judgment, so she said, but she never hesitated to remind me that he is an elf and a slave. Still, he offered what comfort he could and I am grateful.

Would she have approved of Anders, I wonder? Would she have smiled to see her daughter with a hunted apostate, living a life of fear as she once did? Is this why I went to him again?

He would have offered his condolences, but I did not let him speak. It was a mage that did this. I was angry, throwing the blame at his feet, repeating the words like a sickening mantra. Again, they had taken everything from me but this time he could mount no defense. All he could do is wrap his arms around me, hold his ground as my fists fell feebly against his chest. We hurt each other there, there in some filthy Darktown alley, all my anger and fear released in a fit of tangled limbs, in the deep gashes of my nails against his back. And I took him while Fenris slept unknowing in my bed.

Worse still it is the mage's words that linger, the look of fevered certainty as he stood beside his corpse bride. Love, he said, is the most powerful force in all the world. It was not magic that kept mother and the others alive; it was simply love. And in this he did what I could not. You, Carver, Mother... perhaps I could not save you because I did not love you enough.

Or perhaps this is merely one more horror. I have seen men kill. I have seen the dead walk. I have found myself hurting a friend to fall into the arms of my enemy. Tell me, Bethany, is this love?

I dare not ask you now to give such a thing to Mother in my name. I only pray that she is with you wherever you are and that, if there is love in the Maker's sight, it is better than the kind that we know here.

Yours,  
Alara


	3. Chapter 3

Bethany,

Another year, another letter. I sometimes wonder why it is that I still force myself to sit, to wrench these words from unwilling fingers. But it is important that I write this now, for I suspect that this letter will be my last. I cannot explain it, but nor can I chide myself for foolish fears.

You would not recognize Kirkwall now. This morning I happened upon the Knight-Commander and the First Enchanter arguing in the very street, with the Grand Cleric herself playing referee. They would have raised a mob between them, perhaps even come to blows. When our leaders worry the city between them like mongrels with a bone, what then will become of us?

But it is not only they who are at each other's throats. Mother's words rang truer than she realized when she told me that I was alone. I cannot blame that fateful premonition; the fault is my own.

Three years and still no sign of Isabela. Even after she had fled I half expected her to return, to stroll in at the eleventh hour with the relic that would save us all. But gone she remains, long after the Qunari have left our shores. The damage has nearly been repaired, their empty compound sealed and a statue raised in honor of my duel with the Arishok. Hideous thing. But still I wonder if it could have ended differently, whether I was the greater fool to trust and trust to hope.

Aveline has Donnic now. Merrill I passed in the market last week and I received only a mumbled "hello." She is too kind-hearted to avoid me altogether, the poor dear, but her discomfort in my presence is clear. All because I refused to help her use blood magic to repair that accursed mirror. Three years and, for this, she hates me still.

How is it that in trying to do the right thing I achieve the worst results? Varric still visits – we even share a drink from time to time – but he has been distant since Bartrand's death. I was so certain, so certain that if we could only kill the man who sealed you in the deeps... In truth, I do not know what I expected. Even Varric turned from the deed when it came time to strike him down. It was I who pushed, I who held to my convictions. It was because of me that he took his brother's life. He knows this; we both do.

The only one who remains is Fenris. Thank the Maker for him. Were it not for his shadow ever at my side, I do not know if I would be here to write these words. But I find myself left only with an increasingly silent lover, one for them the very act brings naught but pain. It is as though the horror that I've caused so many has been given face and form, a wincing, straining hiss where words of comfort were meant to be. I try not to think of it this way, try not to wonder why he would continue to endure such a thing for me, but my thoughts cannot help but stray.

Of course, I have not mentioned Anders. We have not much spoken since Mother's death. Lately, he will not even meet my eye. On my last visit to his clinic, I found Aveline there ahead of me. He had turned on her, swearing that she would bring the Guard down upon them. When I asked why he did not fear the same from me, he only stared. In those eyes was something more terrible than words could ever be, but he turned away then, issuing orders to his assistants. The way he speaks to them now, to his patients... he is as a general preparing for war. That poor place of hope and healing is a barracks, a last refuge in more ways than ever before. We do not speak of how the mages have fallen under Meredith's new rule. We do not speak of anything. Because we cannot.

You claimed to believe the power of my premonitions, Bethany. I am uncertain still what this dark foreboding means, but I know now where my power lies. The more good I strive to bring, the more harm will come. The stronger my affection, the deeper the rift that will open at my feet. For all my best intentions – because of them – I will burn the world around me.

Perhaps it is time I stopped trying.

Yours,  
Alara


	4. Chapter 4

Dearest Bethany,

It is over. All of it.

The Gallows that you so long feared stand empty now, sealed to all but the crows. The long shadow of the Chantry, with all its righteous admonitions, touches us no more. All the tensions of this world have at last boiled over and Kirkwall was the first to fall into the rift. Mage turned on templar, templar on mage. Even now I cannot rightly say which side I fought upon. We bled them, Bethany – innocent and abomination alike – enough to sate the demons that we claimed to fight against.

They are saying that Knight-Commander Meredith fell to the blood mage Orsino and – Maker help me – I do not have the stomach to correct them. He claimed the same desperation that they all do in the end, but I no longer doubt that he deserved his fate. He knew, Bethany. He knew the mage that killed Mother; he protected him, all so that he might study his "work." Whatever Meredith became, I have no doubt that the First Enchanter deserved his fate. Would that I could somehow make him suffer it again.

And yet still I doubt. There is no triumph in such vindication, no righteousness in victory. "Shock" Knight-Captain Cullen called it when he looked into my eyes. But there were no healers to tend us; I had killed them all. I left that place on slow and dragging steps, fleeing Kirkwall all the faster when the people began to whisper of naming me viscount. I departed as we arrived, silent and unnoticed, slipping away in the night. But this time I was alone.

Rebuilding belongs to people like Aveline, people who still have hope, who never doubt the direction of their blade. I have no doubt that Varric will one day tell the tale, but I cannot now see the value in the words.

Fenris would have traveled with me had I asked, but I did not. I know now why I have held myself distant, why his touch stirs only restlessness. He carries such hate with him still, a fury that fear and distrust pale beside. I do not blame him; magic haunts us both. And that is the problem. In him I see the worst of myself, the worst of what I have become. For a time he gave me hope, hope that together we could be something more than the sum of our bitterness. And perhaps we were. But he found his sister – a sister he had forgotten, a sister who betrayed him, a sister who was a mage. I stood at his side and watched as he killed her, telling myself that it was not my place to interfere. He killed her as I killed you, Bethany, and after that I could bear to look at him no more.

Nor do I think he truly wanted my company at the end. I do not doubt that he would have borne it, but I cannot help but picture him now as he was on that final battlefield, watching expressionless as I wept over the body of another. When the world has been lost, all lies are laid bare.

Anders is dead. He lied to me; he lied to us all. But in that moment – when the sky burned and the Chantry fell – for one mad moment, I stood upon the precipice of abandon. I wanted to throw back my head and laugh, to taste the ash that fell around us and to the Void with the mages and the templars both. War, though, does not wait.

I could not kill him. It was left to me, of course, as so many things are, even though I have never understood the reason. He told me then that he was ready to die, welcoming it with the heavy calm of inevitability. My blade was in my hand, Bethany, but he refused to face me. Even Justice's fury had faded; there were no arguments now, no manifestos. Perhaps that would have made it easier. But he only offered his back, waiting for me to finish him, waiting as he had been all along.

I bid him run, run and never return. And still he would not meet my eyes. He simply disappeared and I was grateful for it. Then could I find my strength, then could I make my way through the city, then could I kill. I almost laugh now to think how easy it was. But Anders would not let me be.

He found me again on the steps of the templar hall. So many had fallen – ours, theirs – familiar faces and twisted visions that chilled the blood. But to see him above me on those stairs... This was no abomination, no ideal personified. It was merely a man, pained and broken but unwavering to the end. I do not know what I said, the words a torrent of anger and fear, but I was hurtled backward on a burst of woven air and I swear to you that it was he who screamed. He left me no choice, Bethany. He had never planned to. The spells came in rapid succession – all to attack, never to defend. He wanted me close, I think. He wanted me to end it quickly. And this time he never took his eyes from mine.

Long we stared, longer than even memory recalls, the world stopping as it had so many times before. Perhaps I did not know it until then; perhaps he knew it better than I. But a length of steel separated us now. I had not felt it pierce his belly, was surprised to look down and see the hilt resting in my hand. It had been many years since I had seen him smile and, in that moment, I too was run-through. He took my face between his hands and kissed me there amidst the blood and tears, pushing closer despite the pain, always despite the pain. It was the last thing he ever did.

I do not know who lifted me from his side, who pulled my sword free. Fenris, perhaps, or Aveline. There is not much else that I recall. Only that when Orsino was dead, when Meredith turned her fury on me – I was relieved. I was happy, Bethany, happy that I was allowed to kill them both.

And so it ends as Mother said it would. I am alone. I will not tell you where it is that I have gone. In truth, if I were to pass beyond your sight – beyond the Maker's – I would welcome it. Kirkwall looked always to its Champion but Kirkwall burns now, spreading its flame out across the world. None will notice one more wanderer, one more refugee. Such irony is worth a smile, is it not? Laugh with me, Bethany, for I have no more tears to cry.

Yours always,  
Alara


End file.
